


Traumatic Insemination

by Defiler_Wyrm



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Amnesia, Anal Sex, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Butt Plugs, Dubious Consent, Enemas, Gaslighting, Gay Bucky Barnes, HYDRA Trash Party, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt No Comfort, Hydra (Marvel), M/M, Medical Torture, NSFW Art, Non-Consensual Insemination, Other, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Red Room (Marvel), Tentacle Monsters, Tentacle Rape, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 08:27:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10715826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Defiler_Wyrm/pseuds/Defiler_Wyrm
Summary: Hydra reactivates the Winter Soldier to assist with sample collection.There are men in uniforms with guns at the door, and to either side of him a few paces away. God, the noise in his head is horrific, the aftershocks of an unspeakable whine. God, his arm feels sostrange. He rolls his left shoulder and it still feels wrong, stiff and somehow unnatural.“Soldier, respond.” The whitecoat sounds angry. Do they mean him? Is he the soldier? Is–Oh, fuck. Oh shit, hell, and damn.He has no idea who he is.





	Traumatic Insemination

**Author's Note:**

> This is not a happy story.
> 
> The illustration is my work too!

He wakes up to a tremendous headache and a distracting tingle-itch all through his left arm. He’s shivering with a bone-deep cold. The lights in the room are bright, blinding-bright. He turns his head to try to escape the red glare stabbing through his eyelids. There’s something padded beneath his head, and he’s – he can’t move his arms. Something holding him down. Why. Why? Restraints on his upper arms and wrists, but he can barely feel his left arm. Was he sleeping on it wrong?

How long was he asleep?

Where is this?

“He’s coming to.”

“Standing by.”

“Get the light.”

It’s not the same language as his sluggish thoughts. He licks his lips and tries out his voice. 

“Why’s everything in Russian?” It’s deep and rough; it hurts to speak.

Commotion. The light dims enough for him to open his eyes. Blurs of color resolve into a swarm of people in white coats, incomprehensible machines riddled with lights and cables, and a room made up of steel and white tile. Various points of his body have wires taped to them. He’s in a reclining chair, and sure enough, he’s strapped down.

“Are we dealing with a fragment?” one of the whitecoats asks his colleagues – still in Russian.

Another answers, “No, this isn’t uncommon. Soldier, respond.”

Soldier? There are men in uniforms with guns at the door, and to either side of him a few paces away. God, the noise in his head is horrific, the aftershocks of an unspeakable whine. God, his arm feels so _strange_. He rolls his left shoulder and it still feels wrong, stiff and somehow unnatural.

“Soldier, respond.” The whitecoat sounds angry. Do they mean him? Is he the soldier? Is–

Oh, fuck. Oh shit, hell, and damn.

He has no idea who he is.

Something tells him not to make the whitecoats angrier. “I...yes?”

They scowl at him, so he tries again. “Da?”

“Welcome back, Soldier.” That was the right answer. They look marginally pleased, which eases some of his anxiety. 

But only some. He takes stock: he’s strapped to a table under armed guard, he has amnesia, a killer headache, and...no clothes. And no sense of modesty to be offended by that, apparently. And his left arm…

He flexes it against the restraints, and looks down at his flexing fingers. There’s a glint of silver – a glove covering his hand and forearm – no, his entire arm – but he pronates his forearm and the segments move and he can _feel them move_ and it’s not a glove it’s his arm _it’s his_ arm _his metal arm–_

“He’s spiking. Should I push acepromazine?”

“Leave it. We need him coherent. Soldier,” ( _Soldat,_ they say it like a name) “status report.”

One of the machines he’s wired to beeps faster as his heart rate climbs. He licks his lips and looks around at the (doctors’? scientists’?) impassive faces. None of them seem any more alarmed by his metal arm than they are by his nudity. 

“Gde ya?” he asks in a small voice. _Where am I?_

“A classified research facility under the government’s care.” The answer comes from a tall man with an aquiline nose and grey streaks at his temples. Like the rest of the whitecoats, he has no name tag, nothing to identify him. “Grey” it is. “You’ve been reactivated for an important procedure.”

Well that doesn’t fucking bode well. He does his best to shrink against the chair, trapped as he is. Surprisingly, they release him from the restraints. He rubs at his left arm (if it can even be said to be his) with his right. He can feel that his right hand is warm, soft, and a little damp, but it’s distant, like trying to feel through a rubber sheet. The arm moves as his mind directs, exactly like his flesh hand – right down to fine motor tuning in his fingers.

It’s fascinating. It’s horrifying. It’s _heavy._

He snaps back to the present and sits up. “What procedure?”

The whitecoats glance at each other. “Sample collection. The details are mostly not of your concern.”

His eyes narrow. Why do they need a soldier for sample collection? Isn’t that something you’d send a nurse or scientist to do?

Why are the men in uniform gripping their guns so tight?

“Why am I really here?”

Grey sighs through his nose as if the question is wearisome. “You went AWOL and killed twenty-seven people. Your victims ranged from age six to fifty-three. You surrendered yourself to the facility for experimental usage to lighten your sentence.”

No. No, that can’t be true. He wouldn’t – he’d never – would he?

What kind of man has a metal arm and answers to _Soldat_?

“I don't, I don’t remember,” he confesses, breath coming too fast. The machine beeps faster again.

“You sustained an injury, but it’s no cause for concern in the long term,” the doctor (or whatever he is) tells him, sounding bored as ever. 

“My memory will come back?”

“Mm.”

That wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a no. It’s terrifying all the same. There’s something he has to remember. Someone...someone slight and, and blond, someone who’ll know what to do. He’ll know how to explain all this. He’ll make it alright.

“Where’s…” What was his name? Did he ever know his name? A boy? A man? He was _important._ “Where’s the little guy?”

“He’s asking about our ghost again,” a female whitecoat mutters to Grey. He’s not sure he was meant to hear it, but it reaches his ears as clear as day.

Grey gives him a stern look. “You mustn’t speak of him. He isn’t real, Soldier. You made him up.”

No, he had to be real, he’s the only thing about this that _feels_ real. “But–”

“Made him up as an excuse for your crimes. It’s well-documented. If we have time after the procedure we can show you the court documents, if you feel you have the stomach for it.”

Read about how he killed _children._ But also, read about who and what he is. What a damnable choice. He says silent, and this seems to please the white coats. And yet, all of them are nervous. All except for Grey. This curdles something in his gut.

Another whitecoat comes in through the door, apparently with a report. “Sir. The chamber is ready.”

“Excellent, let’s get started,” Grey says, gesturing to his colleagues. 

They burst into action, removing wires from the Soldier’s body. Two of them work together to fit him into a sturdy leather harness. Another has a mask that might as well be a muzzle, and he seems to want to put that on the Soldier. No. No, he doesn’t want it. The whitecoat looks to Grey when the Soldier recoils.

“Soldier, attention,” he commands, and the Soldier finds himself standing up ramrod-straight and staring ahead. His hair brushes his shoulders; odd for a soldier, but he’s doubting less now that this is exactly what he is. “The mask is necessary for your own safety. It’s essential that your mouth remain closed through the first leg of this process.”

Reluctantly, he lets the whitecoat affix the mask to him. It sits over his nose and cups under his chin. It’s...familiar, almost. Calming. He imagines the machine beeping slower. There’s still a terrible ringing in his ears, but it seems sensible to follow these...technicians’ orders.

“What about clothes.” The muzzle makes speaking awkward. He’s still cold, through all this. 

The whitecoats look at each other, conferring in silence yet again; and yet again, it’s Grey who speaks. “You requested a lack thereof. It makes things easier in both parts of the experiment.”

“ _I_ requested?” The Soldier rubs at his arms. It’s useless: one hand too chilled to warm his flesh, one arm unbothered by the cold. That seems like a big thing to just forget. Then again, so does his identity.

“Yes,” Grey assures him, looking over charts and signing paperwork for other whitecoats as he speaks. “In fact you insisted on being part of this particular procedure. I suppose you must get some gratification out of the work.”

A bespectacled man coughs to hide a laugh. What’s _that_ about? He gropes for some information about what’s to come, any shred of memory that he’s done this before, but nothing comes. There’s nothing to contradict the whitecoat’s words.

Grey clears his throat, and tips him a look like he’s being slow. “No time to waste. Come, Soldier.”

The imperative drives into his spine. He steps forward and the other five whitecoats recoil from him. There must be at least some truth to what they’ve said. Whomever he is – a bilingual naked man with a silver arm and no memories of his own – they treat him like a threat, and that speaks volumes for what he could be.

He doesn’t relish the thought of being a killer.

He follows the whitecoats’ apparent leader down long concrete-and-tile halls, flanked by guards, glancing at caged lights marking regular intervals. This place must be huge. When they reach an elevator he gets confirmation: the available floors go from their starting point of B1 down to B6. They exit on B4.

Surely he’d remember _something_ had he been responsible for so much death. Surely it would have left an impression. Some inkling of motivation, some scrap of memory. Did he gun them down? Did he plant explosives? Did he–

He watches his metal hand flex, and swallows hard. Now he can’t stop thinking about it crushing someone’s throat.

He must lag behind, because one of the guards cracks him in the back with the butt of his gun to get him moving. It’s an MTs 21-12. Knowing this but not his own damn name is a bitter thing.

At the end of the next long hall and through a set of blast doors lies an open chamber, vaulted and dark, with a heavy winch apparatus overlooking a pit some fifteen yards across. The guards stand by while the whitecoats attach a thick metal cable to his harness. Jesus Christ, but he’s got a bad feeling about this.

“What do I do when I get down there?” He doesn’t need memories to tell him that’s what’s about to happen. But to what end? Why send a soldier, after all? “What do I need to collect? Is there something down there I should be worried about?”

Yet again the whitecoats look at each other. It’s becoming irritating.

“Not as long as you keep the mask on and your mouth closed,” Glasses tells him. The man’s leering smile sets his teeth on edge. “It’ll come to you. Just relax and try to enjoy yourself.”

“All you have to do,” Grey cuts in, “is let the hectocotylus do its work.”

The what?

They don’t give him the chance to ask more questions. The younger of the female whitecoats fiddles with the winch’s dials, and he’s herded over to the edge. It’s a long way down. It’s inky black toward the bottom. It sounds like water; it smells like brine.

Halfway down, he catches a wisp of a woman saying, “That was inspired, sir.”

Then all he has is time to consider what’s to come as they winch him down.

Closer to the bottom – at least sixty yards, he estimates – there’s a glimmer from what little light reaches this far reflecting off a liquid surface. Finally, he reaches the end and gains some slack. He sets down in a foot of salty water. There doesn’t seem to be anything down here but that and wet concrete walls.

Now what?

He tests his slack by edging around the perimeter of the pit. His toes catch a ledge and he stops himself from stumbling into water who-knows-how-deep. A water sample, is that it? They didn’t give him anything for a container.

None of this adds up.

The deeper water bubbles suddenly and a creaking, scraping sound rings out from somewhere down below. The water level rises to slosh up his calves. A sudden terror grips him. Do they mean for him to drown? What the fuck just touched his foot?!

It happens again: something slick and smooth and rubbery tickles its way across his foot. He yelps with his mouth shut and jerking his foot up out of the water. He could swear the deep end of the water just got darker. There it is again – something slippery slides over his skin, curling around his ankle. It wraps around and _tugs_ and he wrenches backwards, stumbling to put his back to the wall. He can’t stop the noises he’s making even if his mouth stays obediently shut.

Is this _thing_ in the water what he’s supposed to collect?

Deep breaths. He can do this. He’s better than this. A soldier. A military man, trained and dangerous. Whatever is in the water can’t pose that big a threat if they sent him here empty-handed and nude.

He stands still and waits. This time he’ll be ready. Soon enough the slippery thing touches him again. It’s tentative at first, then bolder, more firm. It wraps around his ankle and keeps winding, spooling up his shin. Now. Now.

Viper-quick, he bends at the waist and thrusts his flesh arm into the water (who knows if the metal one is waterproof). He grasps at the thing holding him and pulls. It’s round and long and muscular. It jerks as if in surprise as he wrests it up out of the water. It’s…

Jesus fucking Christ, it’s a tentacle.

 _How the fuck am I supposed to bring this back?_ He giggles, reedy with nerves.

There’s just enough light down here to make it appear a very deep red. There are no suckers like he’d expect, but there is a strip that’s rougher than the slick, rubbery skin on the rest of it, and it seems to grip his skin like a lizard on the side of a fence. The thing squirms in his grasp, gropes around, and winds itself around his wrist and then higher, clutching tight.

Another touches his foot. No, no, no. He takes a risk and grabs the new one with his metal hand, but it does the same trick of wrapping around his arm. And then more come for his ankles all the same.

He doesn’t even have time to yell before they’ve wrapped around him up to the biceps and thighs. They pull his legs apart, unbalancing him. He thrashes against them with all his might lest they rip him limb from limb, but they only seem intent on holding him spread-eagle, rather than tearing him apart. Even as muscular as he is, even with a metal arm, they hold him in place. Still he struggles.

Think. _Think._ They’d told him to relax. They’d told him he wouldn’t need to do anything. They’d suggested he’s done this before, even though none of this surreal scenario feels familiar. What if he just…

He relaxes, letting his body go slack. The tentacles support his weight easily, holding him out of the water. It’s going to be okay. As long as he keeps his mouth shut, it’s going to be okay. That’s what they said.

A fifth tentacle comes slithering up his leg. It wriggles up the vee of his legs, slipping cool and wet across his balls, making him shiver. Then it finds the cleft of his ass and rubs against him, and it feels – God, it feels _electric,_ even if–

_Please, please let me be wrong about where that’s going._

He isn’t wrong.

The tentacles hold him still when he stiffens up. A keening sound escapes him at the soft probe against his asshole. The blunt tip of one tentacle wriggles and pushes and pulses like it’s trying to corkscrew its way into him. His cock reacts almost instantly. He’s hard as stone in no time, whimpering aloud, helpless against the onslaught of that wet appendage coaxing him open. He can tell the moment it breaches him and starts to inch its way inside, because it makes him go cross-eyed with unexpected pleasure.

Oh. Well that’s one mystery of his identity solved. _Whoever I am, I’m pretty sure I’m gay._

They’d told him to relax and enjoy himself. It’s going to be okay. He has no idea who he is, his arm’s made of metal, there’s a tentacle beast sodomizing him, and he’s getting off on it, but it’s going to be okay. He clings to the belief like the tentacles cling to his limbs.

It’s warmer and slicker now than it was before; it must be oozing some sort of slime to lubricate the way. _That’s thoughtful,_ he thinks hysterically. Fuck, it feels huge. Inch by rubbery inch it thrusts its way into him. It’s all he can do to keep his mouth shut when he’s dying to let his jaw hang slack and moan like a whore. It feels good. More tentacles join the ones holding and fucking him: they wrap around his balls, caress his torso, probe curiously at his harness. All the while that one arm fucks into him: deeper, deeper, stretching him open wider as it goes. His hole burns with the intrusion but there’s less pain than expected, much less, as if the goo that thing’s exuding is making him relax.

Or as if he’s done all this before.

There is something vaguely familiar about the sensation of his ass being full and fucked. He loses track of time – as if he could gauge it before – moaning through closed lips and rolling his hips as the tentacle forces itself deep into his bowels. There’s a pinch deep in his gut like it’s trying to breach another barrier. It’s so deep inside him the flat planes of his belly have bowed out and the skin ripples as it thrusts and squirms. It feels wet inside, so wet, so slippery. It’s coating his guts with thick slime: all the easier to fuck. His thighs burn, but it’s so good. His balls are pulled taut and played with, though his cock barely gets touched; the creature doesn’t seem interested in that.

The tentacle pulls out what must be at least a foot of its length, then stuffs it all back inside him at once. He screams through a clenched jaw and comes so hard it almost hurts.

He goes even more limp in the tentacles’ grasp. _Maybe,_ he thinks, still hysterical, _they want to “collect” the slime it used to lube me._ But what on Earth would they want that for?

It’s not done with him. The water ripples again, and a paler limb rises up this time. It’s club-shaped at the end, with soft spikes running up one side, and it makes right for his ass. 

_All you have to do is let the hectocotylus do its work._

It’s thicker than the last one by a wide margin, enough to hurt as it penetrates his hole. It thrusts inside greedily and the spikes rake across something his hindbrain calls his prostate gland. It’s too much, too fast: he cries out open-mouthed, again and again. His entire world narrows down to what must be the hectocotylus fucking his ass in deep, fast thrusts. It’s almost too late when he notices a tentacle pulling the mask away from his face.

No, no, that’s not supposed to happen, that’s the one thing they told him not to do! He tries to jerk away from it, but trapped as he is, the tentacle wins out. The muzzle falls away from his face. Immediately the tentacle slithers across his face seeking entry to his mouth. He all but squeals with his jaw clenched shut, head thrashing to try to keep it out.

Meanwhile, the truncheon of a tentacle plowing into his hole forces itself in deep, so very deep, and finally holds still with – surely fifteen inches buried inside him...and then it begins to shake. It stiffens and quivers, and he can feel it gushing warm liquid into his guts. He realizes he’s hard and leaking again as the creature pumps him full of come. The tentacle at his mouth slips between his lips, and struggles against the wall of his teeth.

There’s so much fluid he feels bloated. It feels like the thing is coming gallons inside him. His hole flexes against the firm rod of the hectocotylus, making it feel even more huge. The tension winds higher and higher, and just when he’s sure he can’t take any more, it starts to retract from his body. The clublike end catches on his rim and seems to get stuck, but he can’t panic about this with all the pressure it’s putting on his prostate, and he’s coming, coming, he’s moaning loud and then gagging on a tentacle as it holds his jaw open. With a horrible, wet _shlup!_ the hectocotylus pulls free of his ass...leaving the bulbous tip buried in him like a plug.

Newly blunted, the pale tentacle rises and points itself at his mouth. Frantic, he tries to bellow _“Help! Help me!!”_ at the top of his lungs, but it’s ruined by the firm flesh tendril that locks the hinge of his jaw open. The hectocotylus enters the open cavern of his mouth and sprays warm, salty, chunky fluid in that has him coughing and sputtering, struggling not to aspirate it – and then he’s rising, pulling taut against the tentacles’ grasp, and they let him go, thank God they let him go–

He looks down on a mass of writhing tentacles around a pale, snakelike eye as wide as he is tall.

[ ](http://imgur.com/AIOLv5M)

He’s still spitting what must be the creature’s come when he reaches the top and lands in a shivering heap. His thighs are drenched; his hole is still stuffed closed, belly sloshing with come. It’s not until two guards have hauled him up and he’s staring at the whitecoats’ neutral faces again that the horror of what just happened, of what he just _allowed to happen,_ comes to roost.

But they don’t look disgusted. They don’t look alarmed, or surprised in the least. This was meant to happen.

They meant for this to happen.

“What happened to your muzzle?” Grey snaps. He grabs the Soldier by the jaw and turns his face this way and that as one might a dirty child’s.

“It...the...it pulled it off,” he pants. He can’t make eye contact.

“Why?” the doctor-scientist-whatever demands. “What did you do? You were told to keep your mouth closed. You defied orders, didn’t you?”

His breath hitches. His mouth feels weird. “Please, I– not on purpose.”

“So you _failed._ ”

He nods miserably. That stings far worse than his fucked-out ass.

“Note it for the record,” Grey tells the lesser whitecoats. “We’ll have to do an oral-gastric flush and further impulse control modifications.”

The short one clears his throat. “With all due respect, this isn’t unexpected when we’re operating outside of normal conditioning.”

Grey sighs through his nose and turns to stride down the hallway; the lot of them follow, with the Soldier more or less dragged between the guards. “I’m aware of that. We just have to find a way to make it persist.”

The fuck are they talking about? He has a sinking feeling it involves punishment for failing his mission parameters.

They take him back up to B1, but from there it’s a different route. This journey ends at a small rectangular room all in white, no furniture, no features but the broad mirror that’s surely a window for the other side. They shoo him inside and leave him lying, cold and soggy, on the floor.

For one foolish moment he tries to sit up. His plugged ass is having none of that. It sends a shocks of pleasure and pain through him, and he rolls onto his side with a groan. Liquid splashes around inside him. He reaches back to see if he can’t get a grip on the thing stopping him up, since it isn’t coming out on its own. It’s fibrous, dense, and too smooth to get purchase even with his nails. He tries pinching at it with his metal hand, but still can’t get a grip on it. Messing with it makes it rock up into him. It presses hard on his prostate but also makes his stomach lurch, so at last he gives up.

He stares at the mirror as if looking hard enough will allow him to see whoever’s watching him from the other side. More whitecoats, probably. More uninterested guards. All complicit in this.

Well fuck them. He crawls to the wall directly underneath the mirror and lies down there instead. It’s bad enough he’s alone with his own thoughts and only recent memories. He might as well have some semblance of privacy.

Who knows how long he lies there, replaying the events of the last hour. If only he could just go to sleep and wake up somewhere else, somewhere far away from these people and their sick experiments. He tries to doze but there are too many points of discomfort to relax. The strange feeling in his mouth gets worse. The tingling in his left arm has never went away. His gut still feels bloated, and slowly he becomes aware of a needling pain down there.

It’s a prickle at first, but it escalates quickly. Before he can do more than rub at his distended-feeling belly, a brilliant burst of pain like he’s been stabbed explodes somewhere in his large intestine. He jackknifes, doubling over himself, and yowls as another stab-point flares up, then another, then another. He writhes on the floor – he can’t think, he kicks blindly at the wall and shatters a tile, and he screams as his whole gut, and then his mouth, lights up in razor-sharp agony.

Guards burst through the door with guns trained on him. For an instant he thinks they’ve come to put him out of his misery, and he almost welcomes the thought. But whitecoats follow, and he’s gathered up onto his feet or something like it. Stretching out only makes the pain worse. He tries to walk, but he stumbles, curling in on himself again. The guards take him by the arms and drag him instead.

Down more halls. It hurts too much to memorize the turns. They haul him into what looks like an exam room, and struggle against his strength to put him on and strap him onto an exam table. It takes four men to do the job. The restrains for his left arm are metal; they clasp together with magnetic fields he can feel and electric currents he’s pretty sure would sting, if that terrible limb had any sense of pain. His feet go into stirrups, leaving his legs spread wide.

“It hurts,” he begs them, “please, please help me, it hurts!”

“Why is it so...talkative?”

This voice is new. A man in a military uniform has followed the whitecoats in; from the insignia and the way the whitecoats defer to him instantly, he must be important.

“We’re operating outside of standard conditioning today,” Grey answers. He sounds like he’s trying to sound confident. “Almost perfect compliance thus far, sir.”

“Almost?” the...general? (he can’t concentrate, hurts too much) asks flatly.

“He...there was an incident. Accidental oral contamination.”

So. It’s the beast’s come that’s doing this to him. It got in his mouth, and now it feels like his mouth is full of needles stabbing his palate, cheeks, and gums. His gut is full of it; the same substance, the same pain. 

They knew what would happen. They knew. They wanted him to get fucked by that thing, told him he wanted to. These people, the Soldier decides, are goddamn monsters.

He’s far gone and pathetic enough to beg them all the same: “Please!”

The general waves at Grey to continue, and the whitecoats burst into action. The entire table pivots so he’s in a sitting-up position without truly moving. Then they’re forcing his mouth open, forcing a tube inside, forcing warm, soapy-tasting water down his throat while he tries not to choke. It happens almost too quickly to process.

They walk him through what to do with terse instructions. Lean over this bucket. Swallow. Swish. Spit. Repeat. And then he’s throwing up water and suds and little white chunks of something he doesn’t remember eating. They make him gargle again; soon the pain in his mouth is nothing more than an ache.

The white things in the water look like inch-long grains of rice, gelatinous and white. “Oh God,” he coughs, “are those eggs? Did that thing lay eggs in me?!”

Some of the whitecoats look annoyed; others, amused. The answer comes from Glasses, whose condescension borders on pitying. “We don’t have a female yet. Those little packets you’ve ruined with your amylase are spermatophores; so the...discomfort you’re in is the result of explosive insemination.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, un-inseminate me then,” he wails.

“It is _very_ talkative,” the general remarks, assumably to Grey. “After the procedure I want it reconditioned immediately. We cannot risk a lapse.”

_Why does he keep calling me ‘it’?_

But he can’t bring himself to care what the fuck the military man is on about. The Soldier groans as the whitecoats bustle around again. Insemination. What the legitimate fuck. He yelps again: one of the women is prodding at the plug in his anus with cold forceps.

“Should we extract in one piece or break it up?”

“Take it in one piece if you can,” Grey decides, the fucking bastard.

It’s a slow process, and it’s absolute agony, but she manages to force the forceps into his ass far enough to grasp the bulb.

“Wait a minute, let’s talk about this,” he pants. “If you break it up it’ll come out a lot eas–”

And then he’s screaming because she’s pulling it straight out of him. His hole gapes after it, too wrecked to close all the way, and fluid starts gushing out of him immediately. The pressure eases finally, but the pain does not.

Time for another hose, it seems. This one is thick enough to plug him back up even as loose as he is. The pressure in his gut swells again as they fill him with what he can only assume is soapy water again. As full of the tentacle-beast’s jism as he was, the enema fills him even further, and though the stabbing pains start to subside, his abdominal wall cramps from being stretched out. They make him hold it for several long minutes, while Glasses pets his hair and explains something about the solution dissolving the spermatophores’ adhesive without destroying the packets themselves, as if the Soldier really fucking cares.

Finally, finally, they let him relieve himself of all that water. His ass gushes fluid and sperm packets into another waiting bucket, which they carry off to do who-the-fuck-knows-what with it all.

His involuntary noises have died down to just whimpers now, until the younger woman presses on his poor belly to force out the last of it. He can’t help it: the Soldier fucking sobs. His cheeks are stinging-wet with salt water from the ordeal. Not one of these people cares.

“Extraction complete,” Grey announces. “And an excellent collection. Well done, Soldier.”

 _Blow it out your ass,_ he doesn’t say; _I have._

“Very good,” the general nods. “Clean it up. I will await you for recalibration.”

“Yes sir,” the whitecoats chorus.

They lower the table and most of them clear out. Charged with said cleanup, Glasses and the short one linger behind, accompanied by guards as always. Glasses is staring at him. Glasses is standing between his open thighs.

Glasses puts his fingers right into the Soldier’s gaping hole.

He gasps and tries to squirm away from it, but there’s nowhere to go. Three fingers stroke and spread the inside of his anus, curling deeper to rub against his prostate. It feels good. God damn him, he doesn’t want it, but it feels good. He shakes his head frantically since he can’t get his words to work.

The short whitecoat looks on with a pinched expression as Glasses fumbles with his belt one-handed. “That’s disgusting. You know where that thing’s been.”

“This is the best part,” Glasses huffs. “You should give it a try.”

“I’m straight,” the short one claims flatly.

Glasses chortles and rocks his fingers into the Soldier’s prostate again, watching raptly as his cock twitches an involuntary response. “So what, so am I. _He’s_ the _pidor,_ aren’t you. Look at you, getting hard from my fingers. You can’t wait to get my cock, can you.”

“No,” the Soldier groans, meaning it as a plea for mercy.

“That’s what I thought. Hot bitch like you can’t get enough of it.” Glasses gets his pants open, grasps the Soldier by the hips, and drives his cock into an unresisting hole. “There you go, _pidor,_ here’s something long and hard for you. Maybe not as big as your squiddy boyfriend...but good enough for a quick fuck.”

“Please,” he manages to whimper, “please don’t, no, no.”

“You can’t lie to me. I know you love getting _inseminated._ I know you love it when I fuck your ruined, slutty hole.” The words are like a lance through his chest. Glasses speaks like this is a regular thing. Is this the pattern? Fucked by the monster, then raped by a man? Is this the procedure he’d insisted on being part of, before he lost his memory? Did he let Glasses take him willingly before? God, he’s getting hard, and the whitecoat is stroking his cock in time to his brutal – if relatively painless – thrusts. Is he just fooling himself by saying no when his body’s on board?

He writhes against his restraints. Glasses reaches up to pinch his nipple, and his spine bows up off the table. No amount of thrashing seems enough to make the man stop pounding his ass, filling him back up like he’s been filled so many times today, making his body react in humiliating ways. Pleasure sings through his nerves despite his shame and his fear. He tries to hold out, tries to stave it off, but soon enough he’s coming a third time impaled on a rapist’s flesh. Hot tears stream down his cheeks, and he’s still the only one who cares.

Glasses goes on fucking him at a frenzied pace well after the Soldier himself has come. At last the whitecoat grabs his hips again and gives him four bone-shaking thrusts so hard they move him up the table, grunts loudly, and shoots his load into the Soldier’s quaking guts.

“Good boy,” Glasses sighs, giving him a slap on the rear after pulling out and tucking himself away.

He can’t–

He doesn’t–

Another intrusion. The tube again, rinsing him out. Another hose, rinsing him off. He’s shivering, but his whole body feels like the left arm: tingling-numb and distant. They’re pulling him off the table. It takes being dragged a few yards before he gets his feet under him to walk, and even then every step makes him wince. The pain is somewhere a few yards apart from his body, though. It’s okay; he’s not really there.

There’s someone waiting for him back home, someone with bony shoulders and a curve to his spine the Soldier’s fingers know. He’ll know what to do, if he can just get back there, if he can just remember the name.

They pass halls and doors and more guards. He barely takes note of them. They’re back in the room where this all began: the one with the chair and beeping machines. And oh God, he can feel again as soon as he sees the chair with its terrible apparatus hovering over its crown. He’s sure he’s never seen this before but it makes his lungs empty and his legs lock up, unwilling to take him one step closer to that nightmare thing. 

What does it even do? Nothing good. Nothing good. He can’t imagine a deeper dread. Not even the beast in the pit made his heart pound this hard in his ears. Sweat trickles down his brow even though he’s shivering still.

The guards prod him with their shotguns. “Don’t make me,” he whispers, but they only push him harder, harder, till his knees buckle and he stumbles forward.

The general is there. “There has been a change in plans,” he says to Grey and the rest of the whitecoats. “We have no further use of it at this time. Store it.”

This means, to his relief, he doesn’t have to sit in the nightmare-chair. Instead they want him to stand in a broad glass tube and stay still while they tape wires to his skin, and plug more into his metal arm. The current is mild, but irritating. None of it makes sense. _None_ of this makes _sense,_ and a part of him breaks off inside and crumbles, and his cheeks are wet again, and they don’t care.

The glass door of the tube closes on him. Terror grips him, as sharp and sudden as the gut-pains from the spermatophores. He pounds on the glass with his fist but steps away when it starts to frost over. It’s cold, so fucking cold, so cold he can’t breathe. What are they doing? What are they _doing?!_

All that and he doesn’t even know what it means.

The cold drags him into the dark, and he knows nothing at all.


End file.
